Simone Muench

I pinned a star
              on the shadow
                            of your shoulder.

It sucked darkness
              into a mandarin flame
                            where you leaned

against a boat
              overflowing with ice
                            and oranges.   You’re

a pinned flame,
              an asterisk of snow
                            disappearing in the thin

isolation of my dress;
              in nightcrush and suck,
                            ice shines

metal flowers.
              The river carries stars.
                            Fish bones flicker

beneath the surface
              littered with trout silk
                            and snow.

Your shoulder aligns
              itself with the stars--
                            orange light isolates

shadows of boats
              that appear flickering
                            silk on the ice-

flowered river.   I go under
              the snow’s crush, an
                            asterisk pinned in by

your shoulder.   Your shadow.